


The Rabbit and the Lion - DADWC Prompt Fills

by lyriumlovesong



Series: The Rabbit and The Lion [20]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Divine Victoria - Freeform, Dragon Age Drunk Writing Circle, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prompt Fill, Smut, The Hissing Wastes, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 09:16:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17546894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyriumlovesong/pseuds/lyriumlovesong
Summary: This is a collection of small one-off pieces, most of which are inspired by prompts given through the Dragon Age Drunk Writing Circle on Tumblr. They aren't in any particular order, just posting them as I go back through my blog and find them again. Also I sometimes write ficlets in present tense and sometimes in past tense, so this is a mixed bag.(If you're interested in reading them in real time as I write them each week, you can find and follow mehereon Tumblr!)**THESE MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS FOR THE RABBIT AND THE LION, INCLUDING STORY ARCS I HAVEN'T WRITTEN YET**





	1. Nisathe’run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Cassandra and Freya watching a meteor shower

It’s a sweltering night in the Hissing Wastes, the kind where the only respite comes in the form of a soft whisper of a breeze, only marginally cooler than the air itself. A scant handful of sand blows against the canvas wall of Cassandra’s tent, and she rolls over, wide awake. Her tunic is stuck to her skin, pasted with a thin layer of sweat.

Perhaps it’s the heat, or maybe the weight of an anxious mind heavy with thoughts of the impending Divine nomination, but sleep seems to be evading her tonight. She groans as she sits up on her bedroll, frowning. Then she gropes around in the dark for her clothes, tugs on a pair of leggings and boots, and crawls through the tent flaps.

A handful of wispy cotton clouds dot the otherwise clear sky, endless and beautiful, with millions of visible stars and the huge white face of the moon glinting and glittering across the dunes. Looking around the camp, she sees a small figure sitting a few hundred paces beyond the smoking remains of the campfire, on the edge of a rocky outcrop.

“I did not expect anyone else to be awake at this hour, Inquisitor.”

Freya turns and looks up as Cassandra approaches.

“Hello, Cass,” she says with a smile. She turns back to the sky, inky black and sprinkled with diamonds. “I stayed up to watch the  _Amalenaan_.”

“Do you mind if I sit?” asks Cassandra. The little elf pats a spot of bare rock to her left, and Cassandra seats herself, legs dangling with Freya’s over the edge. Without the unforgiving desert sun to heat its surface, the rough stone is surprisingly cool under her thighs. “What are the  _Amalenaan?”_

Freya lifts an arm, pointing to the eastern sky. Cassandra follows it with her eyes and sees nothing but the usual constellation of Fervenial, the oak. But then a brilliant star seems to materialize out of nowhere, falling with a long, bright white tail behind it.

“Ahhh,” says Cassandra. “I forgot it was that time of year. I used to watch this star shower every year as a girl in Nevarra, with my brother. Followers of the Chant call them ‘Andraste’s Tears.’ It is believed they are a sign of her mourning, after being betrayed by Maferath.”

They watch in silence together for a moment, during which several more meteors shoot across the heavens.

“What does this word  _‘Amalenaan’_  mean in your tongue?”

A smile curves Freya’s lips.

“Something akin to ‘protectors’ or ‘guardians.’ The Dalish believe that shooting stars carry the spirits of our lost loved ones, passing over the earth to remind us they are still there, guiding and watching over us. I like to think my  _mamae_  and the rest of my clan are among them now. I sought them out tonight, hoping it would bring me comfort.”

“And has it?”

“More than I could have imagined.”

Freya turns to Cassandra, and the Seeker can see that her eyes are sparkling with unspent tears of her own, though the smile on her face hasn’t faltered. The elf raises a couple of slender fingers and wipes them away before they have a chance to spill onto her freckled cheeks.

“It is a nice belief, to think the people we have lost still visit and protect us,” Cassandra tells her with a sympathetic smile.

“What about you?” asks Freya, hugging her knees to her chest. “Dread Wolf steal your dreams?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re worried about something,” says the Inquisitor softly. It’s not a question.

“I’ve just been thinking about… about your nomination for Divine.”

Freya nods in understanding. “I see.”

There is another pregnant pause, both women’s eyes fixed on the sky as it is streaked with white fire again and again.

“Do you… have you come to a decision about who you will support?”

Freya purses her lips, glancing down from the sky to study the sand caught in the soft breeze over the dunes. 

She watches as it swirls and dances into little curlicues, whipping the hills into their peaks and then blowing them down again—just like the war, just like the Anchor, just like whatever cruel twist of fate brought her to the Conclave in the first place. It seems the landscape never stays the same for long, and if she looks away for a second she’ll step wrong, cause a landslide, and then be met with another, taller hill to climb.

“I have made my decision, yes.”

Cassandra turns to her, eyes round and full of hope.

“And?” she asks, searching the Inquisitor’s face for some sign of encouragement. But there is none. Her expression falls, her stomach twisting uncomfortably in her disappointment. “You will not be supporting me for Divine.”

As with Freya’s words before, it is not a question.

“Cassandra, you must know that I admire your faith and devotion more than anyone else I can think of,” says Freya gently, looking her friend in the eye. “Your conviction to your cause is something I aspire to. And that is part of the reason I cannot support you for Divine.”

Silence. The breeze picks up for a moment, whipping tiny specks of sand sharply against their backs. Then Cassandra says quietly, “I don’t understand. Do you think Leliana would make a better leader for the Chantry?”

Freya takes a deep breath, sighing.

“It isn’t that. You’ve already proven to me that you’re wholly devoted, and a born leader. You did all the difficult work of building the Inquisition, and then stepped aside for someone else to have power when the time came. I need you to know how much I respect that, and how deeply I have come to care for you, Cassandra. I hope you never doubt any of that. But I have decided that I will not be supporting anyone for Divine.”

“I still don’t understand.” The Seeker’s voice is quiet, choked with disbelief and—Freya is certain of it—the tiniest note of betrayal.

The elf watches a particularly brilliant flash burning in an arc across the sky.

“My people have been killed for centuries by the Chantry,” she explains. Cass can see the meteor reflected in the Inquisitor’s green eyes, still brimming as they follow it toward the earth. “Those that weren’t killed for their refusal to bow to the Maker were displaced, forced to hide and survive in the wild, living out of wagons, always on the move. Those that converted were herded like livestock into filthy alienages and have been living in poverty, or worse, abject slavery. I can’t vote for someone to lead the very faith that has sent my kin to the slaughter or treated them as chattel. I can’t seat someone on the Sunburst Throne while my cousins in the cities beg for bread.”

Cassandra looks away again, across the desert sands to the looming shadows of rock formations in the distance. She has always known that Freya is uninterested in the Maker’s grace, that she doesn’t believe herself anointed by Andraste, that she has no patience for being called her Herald. The Inquisitor has never been quiet about the mistreatment of her people. None of it is surprising, not if she is honest with herself. 

But still, she’d dared to hope.

Foolish.

“I see,” she says at last, her voice quiet and devoid of the warmth it had carried a mere moment ago.

“I’m sorry, Cass. I hope this doesn’t cause any bad blood between us.”

“Of course not.” Cassandra hopes her tone sounds more convincing to Freya than it does to herself. “You are just doing what you feel is right, as you said. I know it is not personal. I may not agree with your beliefs, but I respect your decision, nonetheless. I suppose it is in the Maker’s hands now.”

She clears her throat as she stands, brushing sand off her leggings.

“I should try to get some sleep. And so should you at some point, Inquisitor. We have many more long days ahead before we return to Skyhold.”

She pauses, and they both watch as four meteors appear in quick succession, the longest and most dazzling tails they’ve seen trailing behind before they flare brightly in unison and disappear into the black.

“It would seem your family is watching, after all,” says Cassandra quietly as Freya hugs her knees even closer. “And regardless of my feelings on the matter, I think they would be proud of you.”

With that, she turns and walks back, sand swishing and crunching under her feet. Unseen by her, on the edge of the rock, the elf finally allows her tears to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nisathe’run - "To shape the sands"


	2. Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Blood at the corner of your mouth," for Cullen/Freya

“Our lyrium stores are okay for the rest of the month, so I think we can scale back our requisition order on that a bit.”

Cullen nodded at Ser Barris, leaning over his desk and making notes on a sheet of paper as the Templar talked.

“What we  _are_  low on at the moment,” Delrin went on, “is wooden weapons and practice dummies. With you increasing training timetables now that the weather is warming, we’re burning through them a lot faster than—”

A loud creak of aging hinges echoed off the tall ceiling as the door opened abruptly, causing both men to look up as blinding afternoon sunlight came streaming in. They exchanged a look of shock. If there was one rule Cullen’s men knew not to break, it was that you never—under  _any_  circustances—entered his office without knocking.

But Delrin’s expression of surprise quickly transformed into one of amusement as he realized who was standing there, silhouetted in the doorway. Only one person at Skyhold could get away with this infraction and live to tell about it.

“Freya!” Cullen’s eyes went wide as he dashed around to the front of his desk.

The elf sauntered into the room, smiling broadly, and Cullen scooped her up, swinging her around in a circle as planted a firm kiss on her lips.

“You’re early,” he said, still holding her in the air.

“I made everyone march  _really_  fast,” she replied with a smirk. Cullen set her gently on the floor.

“ _Ahem_ ,” Delrin said, clearing his throat. Cullen and Freya turned to see him giving the pair of them a look. “Should we continue this later, or—”

“Get the fuck out, Barris,” Cullen said impatiently, waving a hand dismissively at his friend. The Templar tilted his head back and laughed.

“Fine, fine, I can see when I’m not wanted,” he said, still chuckling and shaking his head as he gathered up his things. He gave Cullen a knowing smile as he turned and exited, closing the door gently behind him.

Cullen marched over and clicked the lock into place, turning back to look at the Inquisitor.

“Nobody told me you were arriving,” he said irritably. “I’ve given explicit instructions for the scouts to tell me as soon as you’re spotted in the Frostbacks again.”

“I sent a raven,” replied Freya with a shrug. “Told them not to. I wanted to surprise you this time.”

“Well, consider me adequately surprised,” he said, crossing the distance between them again, and cupping her cheek in his hand. He frowned as he noticed for the first time that she bore a fading purple bruise on her face. “Who blacked your eye?” he asked in a low growl. “Do you want me to kill them?”

She huffed a quiet laugh at this.

“It was a Venatori, and you needn’t trouble yourself—he’s already vulture food,” she told him, relishing the feeling of his touch as he traced her jawline. He always did this after one of her long journeys, as though he were reading her with his fingertips, trying to prove to himself that yes, she really was here, and solid, and real.

He bent his head down and pressed his mouth to hers again, drinking her in. She had obviously come straight to him, without bothering to bathe or even change into fresh clothes. The smell of campfire smoke and sweat and dirt hit his nostrils, and he found it made him all the more hungry for her, knowing she hadn’t been able to wait for one more minute. His kiss became more insistent, and she answered it in kind.

He lifted her again, and she wrapped her legs around him, parting her lips wide enough for his tongue to slip through. Clumsily, he made his way to the chair behind his desk, clearing it with a sweep of his free hand. There was a cacophonous series of clattering and dull thuds as ledgers and scrolls hit the floor. He sank back into the plush cushion with Freya straddling his waist.

Cullen became incautious as his lust started to overcome him. She felt his hand brush roughly over her bruise and she winced, yet somehow the ache of it spurred her on more. There was something about these reunions that made every single feeling—even the painful ones—somehow sweet, as though any sensation were proof that she wasn’t lying on a bedroll in the wilderness, merely dreaming of his touch. She had made it back to his arms again. She was alive still, and his.

As her kisses grew more ravenous, a coppery taste filled Cullen’s mouth and he pulled away, concern wrinkling his brow. A cut on her lip, a souvenir of some well-timed blow landed by the enemy, letting loose a tiny little trickle of blood that pooled at the corner of her mouth. She felt it tickling her skin and wiped it indifferently with the back of her hand, then dove at him again. He allowed himself to be devoured.

The undulation of her hips against his elicited a moan, accompanied by the gentle creak of leather on leather as she ground into him. She could feel him, hard as iron, straining against his pants as she carded her fingers roughly through his hair, nails biting, unapologetic, into his flesh.

“Stop,” he breathed, stilling her with one hand, chest heaving as he panted against her collarbone.

She leaned back, her face questioning, but his practiced fingers were at work in an instant, pulling free the knot of laces at her waist and then at his own. She hurriedly wriggled out of her leggings and cast aside her smalls before climbing back into his lap. He’d only managed to wrestle his own trousers halfway down his thighs, but no matter. She flung one leg over them, sliding her velvety skin teasingly over his shaft.

“I missed you,  _ma'vheraan,_ ” she whispered against his ear, hot breath sending a frisson down his spine. And then she had sunk down over him, enveloping him wholly and dragging another groan from his throat.

There was soon a rhythmic squeaking of ornately carved chair legs against ancient wooden floorboards, accompanied by their ragged breaths as they rocked into one another, their hearts beating an unmatched tattoo as their hands searched for purchase, each eagerly relearning the other’s form.

She let out a shuddering breath as she clenched around him, her climax racing hot and tingling through her veins and coaxing his from his body. He roared as he came, bellowing harshly in her ears, and she savored the brief, ringing pain inside her head as another reminder that she was really here. She had made it back to his arms again. 

She was alive still, and his.


	3. Rodhe'vhen'an

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "The first glass of fresh water," as a general Freya story

“I know I said I never wanted to see the stuff again, but I would  _kill_  for some snow right now.”

From behind her, Dorian’s voice sounded raspy and harsh as they trudged through ankle-deep sand. Unrelenting sunlight beat down on them all from the sky above the Western Approach. Freya wiped a forearm across her sweat-soaked brow, blinking the salty little rivulets of perspiration from her eyes. She stopped and turned, gesturing for them all to break for a much-needed rest.

“Never thought I’d hear a ‘Vint complaining about the heat,” said the Iron Bull, giving Dorian a smirk.

“I wish Viv had come this time,” Varric said, panting a bit as he unhooked a bulging waterskin from his belt. “She’s always good for a blast of cold air if you ask nicely enough.”

The dwarf took a deep draw from the pouch before passing it around to the rest of the party, each of whom took a long, grateful pull from its contents. Freya was the last to receive it. She put it to her lips and drank a couple of mouthfuls.

 _Leather_ , she thought to herself.  _Road water always tastes like old leather._

It was better than dying of thirst, of course, but the stale flavor always made her long for the water at Skyhold.

It was a new thing for her, having a water preference. Prior to becoming Inquisitor, she’d spent her entire life moving from place to place with her clan, and as a result she had been used to living off a variety of different kinds throughout the year: cool, fresh mouthfuls slurped up from cupped hands out of forest streams, the earthy-flavored rain they would collect in pots during the stormy seasons, and the melted snow they drank in the wintertime that always left a slight metallic taste on her tongue. Up until now, she’d never been in one place long enough for her to miss the taste of its water once she’d gone.

And it wasn’t even that the water at the keep was particularly  _good_ , either. It was just… water. It was a remarkable feat of engineering technology, of course. A complicated network of piping brought it in from the surrounding peaks right to a well under the castle, with a pump handle conveniently located inside the kitchens. But the water itself was nothing to write home about, at least for most of Skyhold’s residents. And yet some combination of the melted mountain ice and whatever flora lived in the nearby streams gave it a distinct flavor different from that of anywhere else in Thedas, with a subtle sweetness and the merest hint of pine, and Freya found herself missing it when they were away.

She supposed part of this nostalgia had to do with the fact that there had been so many nights when she’d been awake well past midnight, bare feet padding quickly down the stone steps to the water pump to refill her pitcher. Cullen’s withdrawal brought with it an intense thirst, and on the nights when it was particularly bad, she might make the trek down to the kitchens three or four times before dawn.

So, in a roundabout way, she associated the water in the keep with her Commander, and if there was one thing she craved more than her first sip of fresh Skyhold water after a long journey, it was the feeling of his strong hands cupping her cheeks as he kissed her for the first time in many weeks.

“You gonna hog that thing all afternoon, Boss?”

The Iron Bull’s voice cut through her thoughts, and she looked down at her slender fingers still wrapped around the neck of the heavy waterskin.

“Sorry,” Freya said, smiling apologetically as she passed it over. “I was just thinking about how much I miss the water at the castle when we’re away. Bit silly, really.”

“Nah,” said Varric, shaking his head. “There’s always little stuff about home that you miss when you’re on the road. For me, it’s those little bowls of nuts Cabot puts out on the tables at the Herald’s Rest. I don’t know what it is about them, but I can’t stop eating them, and no other pub in Thedas does them quite the same. I think maybe the secret is rosemary…”

“Cook’s dinner rolls,” grunted Bull, passing the waterskin back to Varric. “The bread we bring always goes stale so fast, it might as well be hardtack after the second or third day. But one of those rolls of hers, slathered in melted butter? Sometimes I think I could get off just thinking about it.”

“What about you, Sparkler?”

“Real beds,” Dorian admitted, looking wistfully skyward. “Feather pillows, thick, stuffed mattresses, warm duvets… and no sharp rocks digging into your ass all night because you didn’t do a good enough job clearing the ground before you set up your tent.”

“See?” said Varric. “Everyone has something they miss.” He gave her a meaningful look before adding, “Or some _one_.”

Freya pursed her lips for a split second before straightening her back and gesturing toward the direction they’d been headed.

“We should get a move on,” she said. “The quicker we march, the quicker we can get back to pub snacks and dinner rolls and feather beds.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Varric, taking one last sip before he re-fastened the waterskin to his waist.

Freya stopped and bent over briefly to empty some sand from her boots, and as Dorian passed her, he gave her a gentle squeeze on the shoulder.

“Sixteen days at most, pet,” he said quietly, giving her a sympathetic smile.

And with that, they set off again, each thinking longingly about what was waiting ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rodhe'vhen'an - "The taste of home"


	4. Ena'vun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Indigo skies just before dawn"/"Red wine-stained lips" for Freya/Cullen

It was silent in the Inquisitor’s chambers, save for the soft crackle of a low fire in the grate and the whisper of rustling sheets as Freya shifted slightly in her sleep. Cullen lay next to her, his stubbled chin propped up in the crook of his hand as he studied her, fixing the lines of her features in his mind.

Her hair lay in a halo of messy red curls around her head, her cheeks still bearing the slight flush from a night of imbibing fine Antivan wine, evidence of which still stained her parted lips.

He’d lost track of the time hours ago, but he knew it had to be closing in on sunrise. Today would be their last day together before she left again, setting out for Maker only knew how long. He hadn’t slept a wink.

It was often this way as they neared another of her departures. One last late night of indulgence in what the Honnleath Chantry’s Revered Mother had always referred to as “sins of the flesh,” drinking the cellars dry and devouring one another late into the night, both with equal voracity. One last sleepless night for him as he tried to etch her in his brain. One last lazy morning, idling in bed together until they were gently encouraged by Josephine to get up, eat a bit of belated breakfast, and attend one last long war table meeting. Then the afternoon was all checklists and packing, a hasty dinner and an early bedtime, and their last day was over, and then the next morning she was just…  _gone_.

A fleeting temptation to wake her came over him—to touch her, taste the wine lingering on her breath, and make love to her again, or even just to hold her and hear her whisper that she loved him for the hundredth time that night. But then he watched as her nose wrinkled up a little, the corners of her mouth curving up into a brief ghost of a grin, and he tried to imagine instead what she might be dreaming of.

He felt a bit envious. On the rare occasion that he  _did_  manage to fall asleep during these last couple of nights together, his own dreams were not the kind to smile about. 

They usually involved a raven carrying a bloodied letter.

Watching her small breasts rise and fall beneath the colorful woven Dalish blankets, he wondered how many more fearful goodbyes and grateful reunions they would have to endure before it was all over. He supposed he should just keep praying that they were always granted the reunion part, however hard the farewells might be.

Looking over her freckled shoulder, he could see the sky outside turning from star-strewn black velvet to a beautiful indigo above the snowcapped crests of the mountains surrounding the keep. The fire he’d kept going all night had finally burned itself down to embers, casting a dimming red glow over the hearthrug. Dawn was arriving like the flipping of a celestial hourglass, counting down his last few hours with her.

When he drew his gaze away from the window to meet her face again, he was surprised to find her looking back at him, her moss-green eyes peering at him from behind drowsy lids.

“You stayed awake again,  _ma’nehn_.”

It was half-affectionate, half-scolding. He smiled at her, his expression unapologetic.

“Guilty as charged.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of just watching me snore?”

“ _Never_.”

She returned his grin, a sparkle of mischief in her eye.

“Well,” she murmured, sidling over to him beneath the covers and curling her leg over his thigh so her hips were pressed tight to his, “if you’re not going to sleep, we might as well make use of the time.”

He needed no further invitation, and pressing his lips to hers, he drank her in again, sweeter than any goblet of wine.   
  
Unnoticed outside, the bright yellow circle of the sun slowly rose above the peaks, and another last day began.


	5. Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Raindrops on eyelashes," no characters specified
> 
> (I chose Dorian/Bull)

It hardly ever rained in Qarinus. Until, of course, monsoon season. Then there seemed to be no end of it, pouring out of the sky in torrents as though the Maker himself had upended a bucket over Tevinter.

One such downpour caught Dorian by surprise as he walked home from the market, a sack of golden apples hanging from one hand and a bottle of wine tucked under his arm.

 _A good thing I didn’t buy bread this evening_ , he mused to himself as he walked, not really bothering to quicken his pace. He didn’t mind rain, by and large, and especially not the warm showers he’d grown up with, splashing about the streets of the city with the other Altus families’ children.

These days, though, it wasn’t memories of youthful merrymaking that came to him with the rains. No, these little cloudbursts reminded him instead of a broad-chested Qunari with a deep, gravely voice and horns like a bull.

It was on the Storm Coast—a place where rain was the rule, rather than the exception—where they’d shared their first real night together. They’d been intimate before, and stolen more than their fair share of kisses when the rest of the team weren’t looking, but they’d never slept together. Actually  _slept_.

It had been a horrific day. They’d been sent to meet an agent of the Ben-Hassrath, who extended an offer of alliance from the Qunari. But the mission hadn’t gone as planned. A Venatori ambush had forced Inquisitor Lavellan to make a terrible decision—sacrifice the alliance and a dreadnought full of Qunari soldiers, or leave Bull’s chosen family, the mercenary group known as the Chargers, to be slaughtered.

In the end, the Inquisitor had chosen to warn the Chargers to retreat, and they all watched as the dreadnought and the hundred souls onboard ignited and disappeared beneath the waves.

That night, after the sun went down, Bull had appeared in his tent, unable to speak but pleading with his eyes for some comfort. Dorian hadn’t been sure what to offer at first, but in the end, all the Qunari had wanted was his warmth and the reassurance of his embrace.

The next day, they walked out of the tent together for breakfast, fingers intertwined and mouths set, as if daring the rest of the party to say something about it. Nobody did—in fact, the Inquisitor grinned openly at them both—and they had both just stopped and looked at one another for a moment, smiling. Dorian could remember the way the morning drizzle had collected on his eyelashes, weighing them down until he blinked and the little raindrops cascaded coolly down his cheeks.

The wet sack of apples in his hand thumped heavily against his leg as he walked, and he was reminded of Bull again—this time of the many nights Dorian had snuck down to the Skyhold kitchens and stolen fruit to take back up to his room for them to share. Bull always worked up an appetite when they made love, and sliced apples with cheddar cheese were his favorite midnight snack.

A wave of overwhelming sadness swept over him, and he stopped walking, leaning his shoulder against the wall of a building he was passing. What he wouldn’t give to see that man’s smile again, right now, even if only for a moment.

He bowed his head, thinking of his  _amatus_ , the raindrops collecting on his lashes again, weighing them down until he blinked and they slid warmly down his cheeks, mingling with his tears.


	6. Lost to me in Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Make me," no character specified.
> 
> (I chose Cullen/Freya)
> 
> One of the most bittersweet pieces I think I've written to date. I wrote it with [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QB0ordd2nOI) in mind, so if you want to be extra sad, listen to it while you read.

Late morning sunlight streamed through the clouds. The ground yielded readily as he dug, his creased and spotted hands parting the soft, damp earth. 

He could never smell soil without thinking of her.

She’d always loved this, planting in the springtime. Watching things grow. He remembered the way she would line the walls of their cottage with little seedlings each winter, practically taking over the house with all the plants she was preparing to transfer to their small yard outside.

“You’re going to have to rein it in,” he’d tell her. “We need  _some_  space to walk from room to room, at least!”

“ _Make_  me,” she’d say, watering a little sprout with a look of defiance.

Elfroot for the clinic, carrots for the halla, embrium as an indulgent gift to herself. Never did a year go by without an overflowing garden filled with dozens of different varieties, from the very practical to the purely aesthetic.

This year would be no different. He was seeing to that.

He took up a tiny green shoot, little leaves budding off of it here and there. Wiggling it gently out of its pot, he set it down in the small hole he had dug.

“Bury me in the garden, Cullen,” she’d said, holding his hand that last day, her hair a cloud of soft silver curls on her pillow. “Let me nourish the earth. Let my body give way to things that will live on.”

And so the famed Herald of Andraste–people still believed the tales, no matter what she’d told them–had been laid to rest here, just yards from their simple cottage. People had come for miles, expecting a grand funeral in the Chantry. But she’d only asked for two things: that she would be allowed to go quietly, no big ceremonious goodbyes, and that she would spend eternity in the little patch of earth they’d called home.

He’d dug the cold, hard soil himself, along with Dorian and Bull, the frozen dirt unyielding underneath their spades, blisters agonizing his palms for days and the ache in his back seeming never to fade entirely after that.

He covered the little seedling with the handful of earth he’d dug away, smoothing it around the stem. Soon, these little elfroot plants would blur the outline of her grave, and you wouldn’t be able to tell where she lay. But he’d always remember the exact spot.

He touched the little green plant gingerly with one knobbly finger. It wasn’t as tall or as strong as any of the ones she’d always grown. But then, nothing ever seemed as large, or as bright, or as alive anymore as it had when she had touched it.

A warm tear slid down his jaw and fell to the earth, darkening the soil as he remembered their first spring planting here. She had smiled at him through dirt-streaked cheeks, fingernails black as she wiped sweat from her brow.

“We’re going to be happy here,  _ma’nehn,”_  she’d told him.

And they had been, until their very last moment together.

He turned, digging his hands into the soil again. There was a whole house full of seedlings to plant.

“Papa, you’ve done two whole rows already,” called Lani’s gentle voice from behind him. “Why don’t you take a break?”

“ _Make_  me,” he replied with a smile.


	7. The First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Please stay," for Dorian/Bull

They’ve both had far too much.  
  
Dorian can hardly stand on his own two feet as he and Bull make their way out of the Herald’s Rest with the Inquisitor and Varric, celebrating a successful mission to the Western Approach. After weeks of nothing but sand dunes, blowing dust, shitty ale, and even shittier food, a night at the tavern was just what he’d needed. 

To say he had overdone it would be the understatement of the age.

He leans hard on the Qunari, arm wrapped around his thick waist. He can’t help but notice how warm his skin is beneath his palm, the soft flesh of his belly giving slightly to Dorian’s grip.  
  
The walk to the keep is brief but chilly, and he pulls himself in just a little closer. Bull doesn’t pull back, his arm still slung genially over the mage’s shoulders. Dorian isn’t sure if it’s his imagination or the alcohol or just plain wishful thinking, but it seems like more than just a friendly gesture tonight. 

The Qunari is singing a raucous tavern song, his booming voice ringing out and echoing across the commons as the Inquisitor looks back at them and laughs. Torchlight flickers around the perimeter of the castle’s walls. Colors blend together and the edges of objects swim as they walk, but Dorian manages to stay upright as they mount the staircase.

Bull could take his leave now, but he doesn’t. He walks Dorian through the castle doors, across the floor, to the steps up to his chambers. At any point, Bull could say goodnight, turn, walk back to his room. But he keeps his arm slung around Dorian, singing softer now as he gently steers the mage toward his door.  
  
They pause in front of it, both looking at the worn wood for a moment.  
  
Dorian reaches out and grasps the iron handle, pushing the door open. It swings inward with a creak, revealing his neat and well-appointed bedroom, dim in the light of the wall sconce in the hallway outside. He steps in and lights the stump of a candle, casting dancing shadows onto the walls.  
  
Bull looks as though he’s trying to decide whether he should be looking into the room or not.  
  
“Do you… want to come in?” Dorian offers.

There’s one beat of hesitation as he meet’s Bull’s eye, and then–

”Yeah, I’d like that.”  
  
Bull ducks his head under the doorframe, the tips of his horns close to brushing the sides as he crosses the threshold.

“You keep a tidy place, Pavus,” he says, seeming to feel free to look around now that he’s been invited in.  
  
“Did you expect anything less?” asks Dorian, swaying a little as he steps toward the bed.

“Not really, no.”  
  
Dorian sits, unlacing his boots and tossing them unceremoniously in a corner. There’s an awkward pause.

“Hell of a place, the Approach,” Bull says, casting around for something to say. For the first time Dorian can remember, the big, brash Qunari seems to be lacking in confidence. Not uncomfortable, per say. But unsure.

“I’m glad to be home, back to my own comfy mattress. It will be nice to sleep on something other than a sandy bedroll.”

“I’m being an ass, you probably want to get some sleep,” Bull says, making like he’s going to turn and leave.  
  
Instinctively, Dorian reaches for his hand. His palm is rough and leathery under Dorian’s fingers. Bull doesn’t draw back.  
  
“Please,” he says, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “Please, stay. If you want to, that is.”

Bull gazes down at Dorian, his eye wandering down the mage’s neck to the place on his chest where tanned skin meets dark hair.

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

This time, there is no hesitation.


End file.
